Taming Johnny
by Blue Zombie
Summary: A slash story involving Johnny and a soc, Johnny's initial resistance will probably give way to the seduction.
1. Chapter 1

_This is dedicated to arica998, it was her idea._

Randy

I was driving around the east side of town again, alone this time. The leather steering wheel felt lush under my fingers. I sunk in the soft leather seats, seats as soft as butter. It was a wonder what daddy's money could buy. But these things meant nothing to me.

I saw a kid walking along the sidewalk, and I recognized him as the kid we almost killed a few weeks ago. I recognized the dark slicked hair and the jean jacket and the way he hunched up his shoulders, and how skinny he was. I could still see the bruises on him. I'd thought we had killed him, there was so much blood, but when we left he was still breathing. And there he was, just fine, maybe a bit worse for wear.

Bob wanted to just kill all of these low life greasers, and he didn't see any difference between one or the other of them. They were all the same to him, like rats in the sewer. But I knew something Bob didn't, I knew they were individuals like we were, and that they were born into poverty like we were born into riches. It seemed kind of silly to be upset with them for that. But Bob was one of those natural leaders and his ideas were hard to resist, so I went along on more than one jumping. But that last one, that kid there with his black hair and big dark eyes, that was worse than the others. We hadn't beaten anyone like that before, and even as I hit him, knocking the wind out of him and hearing him moan, I knew we were going too far. But we'd gone too far to stop.

I wouldn't do that again. I was done jumping greasers for fun, and I'd laid off hanging out with Bob and his flask. I pulled up to the curb, the car's engine purring like a kitten, and I saw the kid eyeing me and my fancy car, saw his eyes get wide and from here I could see him trembling. He was scared, and who could blame him? I wondered if he recognized me like I recognized him. What did he remember of that whole thing? When we left he wasn't even conscious, he was lying on the grass and the dirt in a puddle of his own blood.

As I watched him the trembling stopped, and he got this blank tough look on his face, and the moment of fear I'd seen seemed like it never happened. Even though this kid was kind of small and definitely skinny, he looked tough all of a sudden. One hand went for his back pocket, and he leaned against the wall and watched what I would do.

I got out of the car and went over to him slowly, like I was approaching some injured wild animal. I saw the fading greenish bruises on his face, around his eyes, saw the scar from Bob's rings that went from one cheekbone to his temple. I saw the way his long hair fell in shaggy bangs across his forehead, and the grease made his hair gleam in the sun. He took a step back from me and held something in one hand behind his back.

"What do you want?" he said, his voice low. Did he remember me from that beating a few weeks ago, or was I just another soc ready to give him a hard time?

"Nothing, hey, take it easy," I said, seeing the flash of a switchblade behind his back. Maybe he'd cut me, drive that switchblade right through my heart. I double dared him to do it in my mind, but I held my hands up, palms out, to show him I meant no harm this time.

He eyed me suspiciously and looked ready to take off any second, but for now he was staying cool, but I could still see the flash of that switchblade. That was fine. I didn't blame him, not one bit. I remembered that beating, every second of it, more of it than he probably remembered. I remembered him begging Bob to stop at one point, his eyes half shut, the blood pouring down his face from that gash, his nose bleeding, his lip split wide open, and he doubled up from being kicked and punched in the stomach. Bob didn't stop until I dragged him off that kid.

"You wanna go get a soda or something?" I said, feeling crazy asking that, but I couldn't stop staring at those huge dark eyes of his, those full red lips, the way his front teeth angled toward each other. Fear and suspicion was creeping back into his eyes, and he gripped the knife tight behind his back.

"What? No, man," he said, backing up, looking at me the whole time, then he took off like a shot down the street. I got back in my car, sunk into my soft leather seats, and wondered just what it was I had expected.

* * *

><p>That night I couldn't sleep. I didn't even know that kid's name. That seemed wrong, somehow, since after that beating in that vacant lot I had gone home with his blood all over my clothes. I had seen him crying, begging and pleading with us to stop hitting him, and I didn't even know his name? I had never seen such pain in another person's eyes, and it spooked me. That kid got into my head, and I didn't even know his damn name.<p>

Sleep wouldn't come. I crept down the stairs that curved ever so slightly, trailed my hand on the gleaming oak banister, the plush rug under my feet. There were paintings in the stairwell, the paint as thick as frosting. There were sculptures in the living room, gold bonded books in the library. The floors were either gleaming wood or plush carpet or sanded tiles imported from somewhere, Italy maybe. None of it mattered to me. I took everything for granted.

I found myself driving over to the east side again, the car roaming over the cracked streets, past the salt box houses with hardly any yard, just dirt and a few weeds and plastic toys littered everywhere, sagging porches and empty beer bottles strewn everywhere.

I drove slow past that vacant lot and saw someone curled up and asleep. I slowed down and saw dark hair against a beat up worn out jean jacket. It was that kid. What kind of a life did he have that he would sleep in that vacant lot in this weather? It wasn't freezing but there was a definite chill in the air. What was going on at his house that he would choose this?

I turned off the engine and coasted to a stop, got out quiet as a mouse and crept over to him. It was him, alright. The same dark hair and dark eyes, but his eyes were lightly closed and he shivered in the thin jacket he wore. He was curled up against the cold, knees practically up to his chest, and in his back pocket I saw the bulge of the switchblade. Slowly I got the knife out of his pocket and slipped it into my own. I really didn't want him to knife me to death, and this afternoon I could see that he was willing to do it.

"Hey," I said, gently shaking him. He opened his eyes and gasped, awake in a second and jumped away from me, his hand reaching automatically for his back pocket and the switchblade. Before he could take off I grabbed his wrist and pulled hard.

His eyes were all over the place, he looked like an animal in a trap, and I could hear his breathing, ragged gasps in the cold air. He knew that switchblade was gone and he kicked me so hard in the shin that I nearly let go of him.

"Hey!" I said, pulling him to the ground, and he writhed in my grasp and tried to kick me again but I was wise to him this time and avoided it. My shin was aching like a motherfucker. He was tough, tougher than I thought. I had to realize it wasn't four on one this time, and I thought I could handle him easily but now I wasn't so sure. But I was bigger, taller, and I got him down on the ground and I was sitting on his stomach, his wrists pinned to the ground, and his dark eyes were blazing up at me.

"What's your name, kid?" I said while he bucked underneath me, and I had all I could do to hold him down.

"Fuck you!" he said, and twisted his wrists so suddenly and violently that he almost got free.

Oh I wanted him. This tough little shit who wouldn't give in, I wanted him. I wanted to kiss those dark red lips, I wanted to touch his bruised skin.


	2. Chapter 2

I held my breath and looked at him. He wouldn't stop struggling, twisting his body beneath me. I wanted to lean over and brush my lips against his, but somehow I didn't dare. I wondered for the millionth time what his name was. I could feel the cold air against my face, I could feel his wrists beneath my palms.

"Kid, listen, I'm not going to hurt you," I said, my voice almost soothing. But I knew that those words were a lie, because I was hurting him. I wasn't letting him up, I could kiss him if I wanted to, I could beat him if I wanted to. I could see the hurt in his eyes.

"Let me go," he said, the words low, almost a growl. His voice, deep and scratched, pulled me down toward him, toward those red lips. I brushed them with my own and tasted something sweet, like coke and cigarettes. His eyes widened when I did that and his breathing became faster and more shallow, and I could feel every muscle of his tensed beneath me.

I wanted more but would deny myself. I saw the fear creep back into his eyes. I didn't want him to be afraid. So I let his wrists go and stood up and he stood up, too, backing slowly away from me.

"Here," I said, tossing the closed switchblade to the ground between us, not wanting him to be without his protection. He only stared at it, stared at me, and I turned and went back to my car.

I drove back through the seedy side of town, into the decent part of town, and into the lush elegant part of town where I lived. I imagined where this kid lived, some house near that vacant lot, a house that was falling apart and unpainted and with a porch that was weighed down with junk. I could imagine his parents drinking and fighting and collecting unemployment and spending it at a bar or on a poker machine. Bob hated that about them, about the greasers and their deadbeat parents, sucking up all the city's resources, forcing the tax payers to finance jail cells and county provided lawyers and all the welfare checks. But I found myself unable to imagine this kid's life when my own was so opulent.

Back in my massive bedroom in my mahogany bed, I thought about him, how he trembled with fear when I was on top of him, how I could feel the beating of his heart. I thought about his tan skin and the scar high on his cheekbone that looked almost tribal. I thought about his huge dark eyes and how he didn't always look at me, he'd look off to the side like it was too much, the reality that was in front of him was too much for him to deal with. I was falling in love with his brokenness, and I know I had contributed to it.

I couldn't think of how to win him. He hated me, or socs, and I supposed that it was the same. I wondered if he knew I had been there when Bob beat him in the vacant lot. How could he not know? I remembered the solid feeling of his ribs against my fist. I remembered how he had cried, the tears mingling with the blood.

I closed my eyes and licked my lips and tasted him. It wasn't fair because this fight was beyond us, this greaser/soc thing. This class warfare. But how could we ever get beyond it? I tossed and turned and it was the pink gold dawn before sleep would come.

The next day I was drawn back to the east side, hoping for a glimpse of this kid that I couldn't stop thinking about. I drove around endlessly, seeing greasers with blond hair and dark hair and greasers dressed in leather jackets or army surplus coats or work overalls, and none of them were him. I searched, slowing my car to a halt a few times and getting odd and hostile looks from the resident hoods. I wanted to ask someone, to demand that they tell me who he was and where he was, but I couldn't and I knew it. He was nowhere to be found.

I found myself back in the company of Bob, and he slouched down in a booth in a diner and sipped from his flask, and I could smell the whiskey.

"Hey, Bob?" I said, feeling myself start to blush already just thinking of bringing the subject up.

"Yeah?" he said, disinterested, taking a deep swallow from the flask.

"Remember that kid we jumped a few weeks back, that greaser?" I said, fiddling with the wrapper of my straw, twisting it.

"Which one?" he said, and his eyes lit up at the thought of the violence and the glory.

"The one in that vacant lot, he had a football, the small kid with the black hair?"

He didn't seem to remember, and I think all the jumpings and the beatings ran together for him in some drunken blood soaked haze.

"He was bleeding a lot, and he was unconscious when we left?" I said, trying to jog his memory. Dimly, somewhere in the booze addled brain cells, he may have remembered.

"Oh, yeah, that kid. Yeah. What about him?" Bob tried to focus on me, his blue eyes blood shot. I blinked, took a sip of my coke.

"Well, uh, do you know what his name was?"

He laughed, scornful, "No, what does it matter? They're all the same, those white trash low life greasers. Who cares what his name was?"

I shrugged, thinking of those dark eyes that had looked at me with such fear that day. Maybe when we were beating him up it triggered memories of other violence, of getting beat by his father or something. I remembered how he had curled up and away from us, trying to protect himself from our kicks and punches. I remembered Bob dragging him to his feet when he could barely stand, and I remembered the way Bob had been laughing. Right now his bloodshot blue eyes were closing, but he struggled to keep them open as he sipped the last drops from the flask.


	3. Chapter 3

I left Bob sitting there slumped over in his booth, he was so drunk I didn't think he noticed I left. I slipped back into my car, the leather seat like a soft glove, and I put the radio on low. The car glided over the road like there wasn't even a road there, that's how good the shocks and suspension were in this brand new car. I'd seen the cars the greasers drove, broken down things being held together by bailing wire and clothes hangers. I knew that when you were in those cars with the torn plastic seats you felt every bump in the road, it was amplified.

I drove back to the east side, pulled there like there was some string tied to me. I wanted to see that kid, I wanted to see his large dark eyes and the jet black gleam of his hair. I wanted to see the way he looked down, the way he shut off the world. I wanted to see that damage in every gesture.

It was courting danger to be in this part of town. I knew some socs, Bob in particular, would haunt the greasers here and jump them, but it wasn't so safe for us, either. Not all of them were as meek as this kid. They were criminals, thugs, car thieves, gang members. They would fuck you up.

But I didn't care. I didn't care. Besides, I could take care of myself. I needed to see this kid, maybe even talk to him. Maybe find some way for him to let me in. It wasn't my fault, what Bob and the others did. I was there but it wasn't my idea. I'd seen the fear in his eyes, that fear that was palpable. I hadn't wanted to go through with any of it, and I dragged Bob off of him. If I hadn't he might have beat him to death, it was that bad.

I stopped at a pool hall, sauntered in despite feeling threads of fear course through my blood. I was getting more than one questioning look, and I knew my expensive clothes and haircut and demeanor set me apart. They could smell the soc on me like I could smell the greaser on them. But I held my head high and dared anyone looking to try anything. I hadn't hung out with Bob for years without learning a thing or two.

There, at the pinball machine, I saw him. He wasn't facing me but I knew it was him. That jean jacket, worn down to white denim threads, the black hair that was long and curled behind his ears and at the collar of his jacket, the way he stood, kind of tensed and sunken into himself somehow. It was him.

I sat at the bar, listening to pool balls click off of each other. I ordered a soda, a coke, and looked at it fizz around the ice cubes. I didn't drink. I'd seen enough of drinking with Bob, and his parents, their bleary eyes late at night, the smell of liquor wafting around their heads. Besides, I wanted to be sharp. I was a predator, and there was my prey.

I didn't know how to get in, how to get him to let me in. He probably did remember me from that time in the vacant lot, and so how could he ever forgive me? I saw him watching me as I kicked him as hard as I could in the stomach, and he doubled up, moaning in pain. Of course he remembered. But he didn't know that it wasn't me. I was being pulled along by Bob and the others, goaded to do what I knew was wrong, I was caught up in the group mentality. But I was here alone. I'd broken from the pack.

He didn't turn around. He just kept playing that pinball machine, and I could see the little silver ball as it bounced into the tiny obstacles set up for it. I saw how his body would shift as he'd play and the lights on the machine lit up over his head. I sipped my coke, barely tasting it.

I wasn't exactly blending in here, but I wasn't talking to anyone and they were leaving me alone. That was fine. There was only one person here I wanted to talk to, anyway. But I felt the fear. What would he do if I approached him? Would his eyes blaze in anger at me? Would he say something dismissive, like, "what do you want?" and then just walk away? I didn't feel like I could risk it. It was enough right now to be in the same space as he was, to be breathing the same air. I sipped away on my coke and watched him, noticed the exact way his black hair curled at the collar of his jean jacket and behind his ears.

A young looking kid came in, maybe 13 or so, and he glanced at me. His expression changed ever so slightly. This kid, with his long lightly greased reddish brown hair and sweatshirt with no sleeves, this kid knew I was a soc and didn't like it. I saw him walk over to the pinball machine and hang over the side of it, looking up at the kid with the black hair and jean jacket.

"Hey, Johnny," he said, and I felt this small tingle at hearing his name. Johnny.


	4. Chapter 4

I left some money on the bar for my coke and slipped out of there. The darkness outside enveloped me, and I felt almost protected by it. I slipped into my car and started it up, let the heat waft around my ankles, twisted the radio knob and listened to something poppy, something I'd never heard.

This wasn't going to work, this could never work. It was all apparent in that look that younger kid gave me, that subtle shift in his expression. There was distrust and dislike in that look, there was a hardness and a pride in that look. That kid knew what we had done to his friend. We were the enemy, plain and simple.

I licked my lips and rested my head on the steering wheel. Johnny. I felt a kind of fascination with him. I was fascinated by his wounded expressions, by his seriousness, by his poverty. His life was so different from mine. I couldn't stop thinking of the things he didn't have. What must that be like? I knew what it was like to have everything, and to have it mean nothing. I knew what it was like to disappoint the huge expectations of your parents and even your grandparents. I knew what it was like to be expected to fit yourself into the same box that they lived in, what it was like to feel that you didn't have any choices. What must things be like for Johnny? Maybe he had no expectations. Maybe his parents were too fucked to care about him. Maybe they hurt him, but in different ways than my parents hurt me.

I remembered that day Bob dragged me along on his quest to "fuck up one of those low life little shits from the east side," and we ran across Johnny. Even from the car, when we first spotted him, I noticed how almost beautiful he was. His black hair gleamed in the sun, his big dark eyes were almost exquisite. What could I say? I stared at him through the car windows and I knew we would beat him. I knew he wouldn't be able to get away or win, not against four of us. What chance did he have? But that was how Bob liked the odds, all in his favor. And when we caught him you could just see his fear, there was no hiding it behind the façade of being tough, not when two guys were pinning your arms behind your back and two others were punching and kicking you, not when the wind was knocked out of you and your eyes were watering and swelling shut and blood gushed from your nose and the split in your lip. There was no toughness then.

He was already bruised when we got to him, he had some cuts and the fading sickly yellow/greenish bruises along his ribs. Where did those come from? Fights with other greasers? Jumpings by other socs? Or was it his father?

All the violence in my life was violence I sought out, or fell into with Bob and the maniacal light in his eyes. But this kid, Johnny, violence probably just found him. It found him in the run down neighborhood he lived in, it found him in his run down ramshackle house with his drunken father.

I pulled away from the curb, listening to the well calibrated purr of the engine. I'd probably never get close to Johnny, get to know him, talk to him like two people just talking. Because we weren't people. I was a soc and he was a greaser, and there was no common ground.

I pulled into the deep shadows of the trees that surrounded that vacant lot. I was tired of these divisions between everybody. I was tired of the cool aloofness that all us socs had, tired of things never being quite real for us. I wanted to be let into Johnny's world, where things were real, where you could taste and feel things. I was tired of this life that was like something sterile under glass in a lab.

After many songs had played softly on my radio I saw someone walking toward the vacant lot. It was Johnny. Did that kid ever go home? I hoped he wasn't with anybody, and I didn't see anybody lagging behind. He couldn't see me, my car was tucked into the deep shadows along the side of the fence. I watched him walk over to the lot, light a fire and light a cigarette, take a deep drag. I took a deep breath. Would he let me even talk to him?

I got out of the car, holding my breath and trying not to make any noise. I shut the car door, wincing at the slight squeal of the hinges. He didn't see me yet, he wasn't looking this way. I saw his profile, just the outlined edge in the darkness. Quiet, keeping to the shadows, I tiptoed closer to him. Maybe he was distracted, he lit up another cigarette and squinted his eyes as he peered through the smoke.


	5. Chapter 5

Quiet, so quiet now. I could hear the rustle of the leaves over our heads, and I could hear Johnny breathing. I liked this fascination I had with him, it was so much like an addiction. It kept my mind busy so I didn't have to think about going to college, running some business, disappointing my father. I didn't have to think about what I might really want to do or be, what the hell I was here for at all. It was an escape. It was unaccepted on so many levels, not just the soc/greaser level. He wasn't a respectable soc girl with fancy clothes and a trust fund. He wasn't someone to easily manipulate into having sex in the back of my brand new fancy car. He wasn't someone who would tilt his head and laugh at every stupid thing I said.

He knew I was here, or that someone was here. He stiffened almost imperceptibly, and in a second he'd turn his head and pin me with those large dark eyes of his. I held my breath and waited for it.

He turned, saw me standing near him in the shadows, and he recognized me. He didn't get up, didn't do anything but take another drag off his cigarette.

"What do you want?" he said, and his voice was tough and bored. He seemed like a tough little hood, like someone you wouldn't want to mess with, but I knew different. We'd already messed with him. I knew there was something vulnerable under this toughness he was trying to project.

"Nothing," I said, and it felt like a curious lie. I wanted things. I wanted to talk to him, I wanted to beg his forgiveness, I wanted to kiss him, I wanted to touch his tanned skin, his black greasy hair. I didn't know if he knew I'd been with Bob that day. How could I find out? I didn't know exactly what he remembered of that day. It was traumatic. I could close my eyes and see him as we left him, crumpled in a heap in the grass, curled up, bleeding everywhere, barely conscious.

I watched him for signs that he was going to run, or pull that switch blade on me. But he didn't. He turned his head away from me and continued smoking, almost ignoring me. I breathed in and out, feeling the cold air entering my lungs. What did I expect? Did I expect overwhelming friendliness from a kid I had nearly killed? And even if he didn't know that I had been there, he knew socs had been there and so he distrusted us all. It was simple psychology. I sat down across from him, on the other side of the fire. There were rickety lawn chairs here, and the abandoned seats taken from junk cars.

"You're Johnny, right?" I said, and now he looked at me, tossed his cigarette away. There was such deep suspicion in his eyes. He didn't respond, just looked at me with his distrustful glare. I cleared my throat, glanced from side to side, saw my car in the distance in the shadows. Saw the way the firelight flickered on the patches of grass and dirt, the bits of broken glass and papers.

"I'm Randy," I said, and now maybe some of this soc/greaser thing could wear away, now that we could be Johnny and Randy. I felt the slight urge to grab him, to pin him to the ground and kiss him again, but that didn't build trust. I felt fortunate that he wasn't taking off. He wasn't overwhelming me with conversation but he wasn't leaving, that was something.

Still he didn't say anything. What could I say? Maybe I could start with the endless apologies I had to make to this kid. My behavior had been reprehensible. From when I'd forced him to kiss me here, to when I'd helped Bob beat him nearly to death, what had I been thinking?

"Listen, Johnny, I'm sorry about, about the other day here…when I, uh, kissed you…" I felt absurd, the words kind of falling out of my mouth, making things worse. He was looking at me with uncertainty. I bet he never thought a soc would be apologizing to him for anything. And I didn't think I could tell him that I felt compelled to do it, to kiss him, because he was so, I don't know. Luscious. Those eyes, man. Those red lips. I couldn't resist him.

He did not say anything. He looked at me like I might be out of my mind, and maybe he was right. I felt out of my mind. I felt fed up with all the violence, felt fed up with all the narrow expectations of not only my parents but my friends as well. I felt pretty fed up with socs, and I was one. How must Johnny feel? No wonder he wasn't talking to me.

"Look, I know I'm a soc, and you're a greaser, but those are only labels, you know? It's only money. It doesn't mean we can't talk to each other, or…" I let the "or" trail off there, because I kept thinking of the things I wanted to do. I'd like to have him in the back seat of my car, him laying down on his stomach on the soft leather seats, and I'd be next to him, kissing his neck, touching his lips with one finger. Listening to his quickening breath.

He was just looking at me, still looking at me like I might be crazy. What could be worse than a crazy soc? I saw his hand slip back toward his back pocket, and I knew that was where he kept that knife of his. I wasn't going to make a move toward him, that slight reach for the knife indicated that I shouldn't do that. He was like an animal with their teeth bared and claws exposed. He wasn't fighting now but he would. Fine. I really should expect nothing less.

"We aren't all as bad as Bob, that's my buddy, but, we aren't all as bad as he is. I know he hurt you that time, that time in the vacant lot a few weeks ago?" He looked at me sharply when I said that, and those big dark eyes of his got wide, and his breathing changed. He remembered that all right.

"Listen, I was there that time, and I'm sorry. It never should have happened, it never…" All these words that didn't mean a thing, and he was looking to me like he was remembering it now, like an acid flashback or something.

He looked down, and now he grabbed that switchblade and held it closed behind his back. He looked up at me with just his eyes, his head down.

"You're sorry?" he said, and for the first time the tough bored tone he had consistently used with me was gone. Even in the firelight that scar from his cheekbone to his temple was clear as day. I swallowed hard, thinking of that day. It had haunted me. I looked down, too.

"Yeah. It, we never should have done that. It was wrong. I'm sorry," Man, those are tough words. It's tough to admit that you were wrong.

He didn't say that he forgave me. He didn't say anything. I could feel the weight of his switchblade as he held it in his hand. I stood up, stretched, gazed at him, at his jet black hair and jean jacket, the worn out jeans that were worn to white at the knees, the black converse sneakers all beat up to shit. This kid was so frighteningly real I could taste it.

"I'm gonna get going, kid, Johnny," I said, wanting to add I'd see him later but not wanting it to sound threatening. Maybe little by little he'd let me in. He didn't pull the switchblade on me this time. That was something.

Back in my car and pulling away, out onto the deserted streets, the slumbering houses along all sides. Would I ever have him, own him as completely as I wanted to right now? Would I ever get to lean over and kiss him, my hand on the back of his neck? This was slow going, this gaining of trust. I didn't know if I was gaining anything. He might be too damaged to trust me. He was broken. But I was broken, too.


	6. Chapter 6

I drove home, there was no where else to go. Beyond the wide and long driveway was my house, the soft yellow lights on in the living room. The living room had a wide stone fireplace and a bar on the other side, the bar a gleaming mahogany and leather. Most of these west side houses had a bar in the corner of the living room. It was convenient for offering your boss or colleague a drink before or after dinner. But my old man rarely drank to excess, not like Bob's parents, not like Bob. He was decent enough, my old man, which is why I felt bad about disappointing him. If I haven't yet I would, I could sense it coming. We just weren't on the same page, him and me. I didn't know what page I was on.

I stepped into the house, looking guilty, feeling guilty. For what? For talking to Johnny? Worse, for apologizing to him? For wanting him in some way that was not acceptable? All these things? I stood just inside the doorway and watched my father rattle the newspaper and then look over it at me.

"Hello, son. Where've you been?" he said, disappearing behind his newspaper again. I cleared my throat. I couldn't begin to explain where I've been. It defied explanation.

"Just driving around," I said, and he laughed a little.

"Enjoying the new car?" he said, and I agreed that that was true, but my old man didn't get it. That car meant nothing to me. I could walk or take a bus. None of this meant anything to me. But I heard it in his question, I heard that expectation that I did enjoy it, and I heard how he was proud that he could afford to waste all that money on me. I guess I felt something about the gift, but I didn't know what I felt.

"Well, good night," I said, and hurried up to the sanctuary of my room. I thought about Johnny, thought about him spending all night out in that vacant lot, just like he did last night. He'd never get a brand new car as a gift. He was so far behind in this world before he even started. Funny I'd never thought about that before, about Johnny or any of the greasers. None of them had shit.

I could almost imagine what it was like to be him, to be so poor, to have nothing. I could imagine going home to a house that was falling down around itself and to parents who were drunk and violent, and then outside to the streets that had as much violence. No wonder he was so distrustful and so ready to strike with that switchblade. And we'd attacked him, me and Bob and the rest, for what? For kicks? Because Bob had a mindless hatred of the low life scum of the east side? These seemed hardly reasons worthy of almost killing someone.

I felt like I had gone to another world, not just 20 miles away in the same city. The houses were different, the bars were different, the people were different. I didn't belong there, like a tourist snapping pictures at some monument half way across the world. I didn't belong there. But I was drawn there, drawn to Johnny and his wounded eyes and his act of being tough. Maybe I could somehow atone for what I had done to him, or helped do to him. It was seared in my memory, the way he had pleaded with Bob to stop, the way he had moaned and cried as it became clear Bob wouldn't stop, and when I finally dragged Bob off of him he had been barely conscious.

The next night I was back again, my car gliding effortlessly over the streets of the east side, and I parked along the side of that pool hall and ducked in, scanned the place for Johnny but didn't see him. Felt the disappointment like an actual physical pain, my stomach cramping with his absence. I left that pool hall and tried another, another pool hall and another diner and another drive-in movie and I didn't see him anywhere. The last hope was the vacant lot where he had spent the last two nights and I could feel my hopes getting up, getting high, ready to be dashed. He wasn't there. No one was there. The grass swayed in the wind, the bits of litter blew from their places in the grass, the fire was ashes, it was empty. I felt the yearning to see him withering all of my cells, shriveling them and shrinking them until I nearly couldn't stand it. Where was he? At his house? I looked at the houses in a two block radius of the vacant lot and wondered which one was his. I felt the urge to knock on all the doors frantically, like some mad man, and demand to see Johnny.

I felt it, I knew I wouldn't see him tonight. I knew that no matter where I searched I wouldn't find him. It was one of those nights, full of frustration. Defeated, beaten, I drove home.


	7. Chapter 7

I was in my room, alone. I could hear cars off in the distance, I could see the glow from the streetlights, a yellow square of light falling through the window and illuminating the rug. I've never felt so alone as this. I'd never have this kid, this Johnny. He wouldn't let me in. Why would he? Why should he? I haven't done anything worthy of being let into his life. I helped Bob beat the shit out of him. I did that. I covered my head with the pillow and waited for the sleep that wouldn't come.

Saturday morning. I felt the dull pulse of a headache behind my eyes. I hadn't shut the shades last night and the sun was glaring full force through my window. Groaning, I got up.

My parents were having a light brunch on the back terrace. The maid was unobtrusively refilling their coffees and getting them more fresh baked rolls. A light breeze lifted a sheet of my mother's hair.

"Randy, come sit, have some brunch," my mother said, her voice soft and cultured. I wondered about Johnny's mother, what was she like?

I sat down and gazed at the bowl that was full of perfect balls of cantaloupe and green melon. The maid made them with an ice cream scoop. But I wasn't hungry. My stomach felt all twisted with my frustrated desire.

"No, I can't eat. I've got to go," I said, and my parents smirked at each other. Let them smirk, I didn't care. I headed for my car, and once inside I'd travel the familiar 20 miles to the east side and see if I couldn't find him today.

I didn't see the roads as I drove, I saw Johnny in my mind's eye. That long black hair so heavily greased that it would shine. His big dark eyes, always suspicious and anxious and almost haunted. The scar on his cheek from Bob's rings. His full lips, parted ever so slightly. I saw the way his jeans slid down his hips. I saw the way his sneakers would scuffle against the ground as he walked. I saw the tense set he had to his shoulders.

The neighborhoods had taken that turn when I wasn't even looking, that turn where the yards were weeds and empty beer cans and the plastic rings of six packs littered the side of the road and grubby kids stood in yards and driveways with broken plastic toys. I saw the greasers and hoods standing together in little packs on street corners in their leather jackets and worn out jeans and ratty sneakers or boots. I didn't see him.

I drove by the vacant lot and saw a game of football, and he was there. Johnny. There were six others, some athletic looking and almost clean-cut, some as greasy hoodlum looking as Johnny. I watched from my car, unable to approach him when he was protected by a group. I saw that young kid I had seen at the pool hall, the one who had given me that look. I noticed the camaraderie that was evident between all of them. That wasn't present with me and my friends. We were all too cool for that, too aloof, nothing meant anything and that included friendships. What did Bob mean to me? He was a crazy violent drunk.

I drove away before I was seen. There was nothing I could do. I couldn't penetrate his circle of friends. So I drove away, drove around, flipping through the dials on the radio. The day slipped away as I stopped at this drugstore for a coke and that diner for an order of fries. I drove as the light faded from the sky. I was aimless. I headed back to the rich side, the west side, gazed up at the houses that were all as decadent as my own. My parents', I meant. Nothing was mine, not yet. Just this car, just the promise of the trust fund when I was 25. 25 was a lifetime away.

Darkness had descended. The world was dark. I thought of Johnny's voice, how deep it was, surprisingly so, scratchy and quiet. How it had pulled me toward him that day when I had him pinned to the ground, his switchblade safely in my pocket.

I thought of making a last ditch effort run back there, back to the east side, the poor side that pulsed and yearned with this energy I could sense but couldn't quite feel. Things were real there, Johnny was real, and I wanted that in my life. I was tired of all the wealthy things that surrounded me but had no substance, that didn't seem quite real. That were frozen under glass. That's how I was, too, to a certain extent. I felt frozen, I felt only half alive. But when I was around Johnny, with all his nervous energy and the hurt that was so clearly in his eyes, I felt fully alive, I felt whole for the first time in my pampered little life.

It was late. It was nearing 11, it was nearing midnight. I couldn't sleep anyway. I headed back there, past the railroad tracks that really split the city. I entered the other world. My car was stealthy and quiet, the engine humming along. I was cradled in my soft leather seat. At the vacant lot I first saw the fire flickering in the distance, and then I could smell the smoke. It reminded me of barbeques, of beer blasts on the river bottoms. It smelled like a memory.

I knew he was there before I saw anybody, I just knew it with the certainty of knowing, the same way I knew I wouldn't find him last night. I pulled up to the curb under the shade of the tree by the fence that hid my car, that cloaked it in the shadows. I could feel my heart start to pound with the excitement and the uncertainty of it all. Could I chip away at the wall he had erected between us, the wall between greasers and socs?

I walked over and saw him standing by the fire. He was turned away from me, the collar of his jean jacket flipped up, and he was smoking. I saw him raise the cigarette to his lips, I saw the smoke twirl away and join the smoke from the fire. If he heard me he gave no indication of it. I got close, fairly close, within talking distance. I shoved my hands deep in the pockets of my coat, my expensive Italian cut coat. The pockets were lined with real silk.

"Johnny?" I said softly, and I could feel my heart beating. He didn't startle this time or jump back or turn to me with the quickness of a scared animal. He just turned toward me, and I saw the beginnings of a black eye and his split lip, blood dried black in the middle of it. He looked at me, the injured eye watering and he squinted it a little, and he took another drag on his cigarette.

My first thought was that it was Bob, but Bob would have gone much farther than just those injuries. It wasn't Bob. I stared at him, and I thought how his injuries seemed to heighten his attractiveness. Johnny didn't look at me long, seeming to lose interest, seeming to not care that there was another person there with him at all. He looked away, kept smoking, and when that cigarette was done he tossed it into the fire and almost immediately lit another one with the practiced hand of the long time smoker. Despite the wind that rustled the leaves of the trees and tugged at our clothing and hair, the flame in his cupped hand didn't flicker at all.

I was being completely ignored. I could feel it, but whether he was purposely shutting me out I wasn't quite sure. But he wasn't leaving. My presence was apparently not altering his behavior at all. So I stood in the warmth of the fire and listened to the sounds it made, the crackles and hisses, and I saw how the firelight played across Johnny's features.

Did I dare talk to him? I wanted more than anything to talk to him. But the silence seemed to become its own thing, something real and oppressive, something that couldn't be broken. I could think thoughts in the silence, but to drag thoughts out of my mouth with words seemed unthinkable. I could hear my heart beat in my ears, I could feel it pounding in my chest. Johnny seemed cool, impassive, as aloof as any soc had ever been.

"Hey, what happened to you?" I said, shattering the silence because I had to. I blinked in the cool air, the fire warming one whole side of my body. When I spoke he turned to look at me again, those large dark eyes even darker in this light. How could I think he was aloof like a soc? Everything was right there in his eyes, hurt and betrayal and misery. Desperation. You could smell it on him.

There was a beat of silence, two beats. I wondered if he'd answer me at all.

He looked down before he answered, he stared at the ground and at his sneakers. When he spoke his voice was husky, like he'd been crying at some point.

"My old man," he said, and I stared at his bruised eye that was swollen, that would be a deep black and purple tomorrow. I stared at his lip that was twice its size and split wide open, the blood dried there. It looked painful. His father did this? I thought of my own father, who had never raised a hand to me. He raised his voice when he needed to, he disciplined with love, with the desire to see me staying on the right path. It was his right path, but I knew my father's intentions were good. What had Johnny done to warrant that black eye and split lip and whatever other injuries he might have?

"What did you do?" I said, just to be saying something else, just to get him to talk to me, just to hear his voice that was scratchy and thick. Just to see the hurt that would play out in his eyes.

He closed his eyes and let his breath out in a shuddery sigh. I watched him, listened to his breathing, thought of the night he had at his house, the violence that erupted there.

"Nothing! I didn't do anything, but I don't have to. My old man, he's a drunk, so he just, he…" He stared away, off into the distance, maybe toward his house. I don't think I'd ever heard him say so much all at once.

"That's why you sleep out here so much?" I said, and that was pretty obvious, but I wanted to talk to him. I scrambled in my brain for something to say. His quietness made me feel quiet, or made me question the things I was going to say.

Looking down, pulling his cigarette smoke deep into his lungs, he answered me again.

"Yeah," he said, his voice quiet, sexy. I heard his voice like a blind man could hear a voice. Every inflection seemed to stab at me.

"So why don't you take off? Run away or something?" I said, peering at him, trying to get him to look at me. But he wouldn't. He still looked away. There was a pause but not so long this time before he answered.

"I thought about it," he said, and shrugged. Not much of an answer, but what did I expect? At least he was answering. I pulled a cigarette from my own pack and lit it up, feeling the nice nicotine buzz. I liked standing here with Johnny, I liked that he wasn't pulling that knife at me or swearing at me or kicking me in the shin. Maybe this was progress.

"So, are you gonna sleep here tonight?" I said, wanting to just bring him home with me. My parents would probably have heart attacks if they saw such a street rat hood in their house. They were the charitable types, my dad donated money to all the local charities and my mother volunteered once a month at a soup kitchen, but I knew they preferred the social problems to stay out of their living room and safely in the east side streets where they belonged.

"Yeah," he said, and threw his cigarette butt into the fire. I watched it arc up and land in a licking flame and vanish.


	8. Chapter 8

I shivered in the wind and lit a cigarette just for something to do. I only smoked when I was bored or nervous. I wasn't bored. I rubbed my arms in the wind and looked at the fire. I could feel Johnny near me, but I was afraid to even look at him. He was making me so nervous all of a sudden, like one wrong word from me and he'd take off.

This whole thing might be stupid, he might not even be interested in this. If he wasn't there would be no point, all I'd ever get are blank stares and refusals of everything. Isn't that basically what I've gotten so far? Of course I got a knife pulled on me and I got kicked in the shin. But I couldn't blame him for that and I didn't, not after that time in the vacant lot with Bob nearly killing him.

So I glanced at him and he was still standing there, the wind whipping his hair and the edges of his jacket. He never offered anything. He was so quiet. I didn't have the energy to break the silence, not now. I wanted to stay but in a funny way I wanted to leave, but I felt frozen in place. I knew if I asked him to come to my house he'd look at me with that look, a mild surprise and indifference and he'd say no.

He sat on the abandoned back seat of a car, the leather torn. I felt the wind whip through me, and I nearly just walked back to my car without a word, but some part of me had other ideas.

"Can I sit here, too?" I said, and he had been nearly curling up, his eyes half shut. He blinked up at me, the injured eye turning purple now. He shrugged, and then nodded. So I sat on the other edge of the seat, as far from him as I could and still be on the seat.

"You know," I said, breaking the silence again, my words almost lost inside the wind, "you might think I have it made because my parents are rich and they give me a ton of things and they never hit me," I looked at his bruised eye and swollen lip, but he wasn't looking at me. He was looking in the other direction and I wasn't even sure that he was listening.

"But I don't have it made, because all their money makes them expect things from me, and all their money makes them think that they're always right," I saw Johnny's eyes slide in my direction, and I knew he was listening.

"Everything they give me ties me to them, it kind of traps me, like I become a slave to their ideas, to their plan for my life. Even though your parents have, well, they probably have nothing to give you, you aren't trapped and tied to them like I am with my parents. I kind of envy you, in a way. You're free in a way I'm not,"

He sat up now and turned toward me, blinking his eyes slowly. I heard him swallow.

"I never thought of it like that," he said, and he seemed a little less miserable. I felt this flood of warmth. I was happy that my misery, and it was misery I had been pickling in for years, trying to chip myself out of the money cage my father had built around me, I was happy that the explanation of it had caused Johnny to feel a little better about his own life.

"Yeah, you gotta look at things in a different way from time to time," I said, and he actually smiled a little. I wanted to snake my hand across this torn leather seat and touch his hand. I wanted to rest my thigh against his thigh, but I wouldn't dare. I wouldn't move a muscle. It was enough talking to him, getting him to smile.

The fire was dying out, and I watched Johnny throw a few more pieces of wood on it. He looked so beautiful with the firelight right on his face like that. I blinked and felt so drawn to him, and I guess I'd felt that way ever since I saw him out of Bob's car window.

He sat back down and stared at the fire, then he turned toward me, and I just gazed at him, at his large dark eyes and perfectly angled nose and full lips, a natural red. I felt the twisty feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Why are you always hanging around here?" he said, but not mean, just curious. I couldn't tell him the real answer, that I'd become fascinated and obsessed with him, that I saw something in his life that was missing in mine. I couldn't tell him that I was fascinated with the differences between us. I couldn't tell him that he was so physically attractive to me that I wanted to kiss him, I wanted to do all kinds of things, I wanted, wanted…

"I don't know," I thought about when I kissed him, or forced a kiss. Didn't he remember that and know what it meant? Maybe he didn't, maybe he blocked it out. Maybe he thought it was just accidental or something.

He didn't push it, just shrugged and curled up into himself, yawned. He'd be asleep soon, I could tell. I listened as his breathing evened out. I listened to the wind and crackle of the fire and to Johnny breathing. He was asleep and I watched over him, vowing that I wouldn't let anyone hurt him.


	9. Chapter 9

I hadn't realized that I had fallen asleep, but I had. I awoke to weak sunlight and a deep chill that went down to my bones. I didn't know at first where I was or why I was outside. I blinked and saw Johnny curled up next to me, and then I remembered.

He looked cold and unhappy even in his sleep. I gazed at him, at his tan skin, his bruised and swollen lip, his black eye that looked worse this morning than it did last night. I saw the old jean jacket he wore, and I recalled that he was wearing that when Bob and me and the rest had beaten him up that time. Blood stains never came out too well, and I could still see them faintly on the collar of the jacket. I closed my eyes and felt sick again over what I had done. I remembered how I had felt sick then, how I knew things were going too far and still I helped, I kicked and punched him and held him so Bob could pound on him over and over. It was only toward the end that I regained my senses and pulled Bob away.

I tried to push that out of my mind. It was a mistake, time to let it go. It was months ago. He was starting to stir, moaning a little in the cold, drawing his knees up to his chest. I licked my lips and looked at him. I was chilled all the way through from staying out here all night, and I thought of how often he must do this. I wanted to take him home with me like a little stray puppy, hoping my parents wouldn't mind. If I did bring him home I knew exactly what they would do. They would be polite on the surface, but it would be overly polite, there would be a forced quality to it, and my mother would eye his long and greased hair and his worn out and ill-fitting clothes, and she would fear for the safety of her valuables on display in every room of our big house.

He sat up, blinking his eyes slowly, reaching for his cigarettes before he was even fully awake, and then he saw me. He wasn't that surprised, just glanced over at me, pulled a cigarette from his battered pack and lit it. I watched him pull the smoke deeply into his lungs and he didn't even cough. He exhaled it in one smooth gray stream.

"Hey," I said, rubbing my arms briskly. He didn't say anything, he nodded through his cigarette smoke.

I felt like I should leave. I felt like he was waiting for me to leave, or he'd leave soon to meet up with his friends. Of course I wouldn't be invited. It would be dangerous for me to be around some of his friends. I was sure they hadn't forgotten the bad blood between us, between greasers and socs. My lust for Johnny hadn't changed that at all.

Suddenly I felt reckless. The white blue sky and the cold weather was making me reckless.

"Johnny, want to come over my house?" I said, not caring about my parents and their suspicion of the lower classes. Not caring about the awkward questions my dad would inevitably ask him, things about college and what his father did for a living.

"What?" he said, glancing over at my car, and I saw two things in that glance. There was admiration for the car and a dull jealousy, and fear. He was thinking if he got in my car he'd be hurt. I could see that thought in his eyes.

"Do you want to come to my house?" I repeated it for him, willing him to say yes. I suddenly wanted more than anything to have him in my house, to have his presence fill the foyer and the marble tiled halls.

"I don't know," he said, and I could hear in his voice that he didn't fully trust me. Maybe he didn't trust me at all. Maybe he would never trust me and I had been fooling myself, thinking I could rebuild the shattered trust. What was I thinking? This was a poor kid with an abusive father who had also been savagely beaten by the rich socs. He was traumatized. How could he ever trust me? There was no overcoming the impoverished environment. There was no undoing each punch and kick, each time he was thrown to the ground. It could never be undone. The damage was there. He would say maybe or he didn't know but the answer remained the same. The answer was no.

I wanted to beg him, to plead with him to come, to let it go, to trust me because I was trustworthy. I wasn't Bob. I would never hurt him now.


	10. Chapter 10

The answer was no. I looked at him eyeing my car with a deep suspicion. Who knew what he was thinking would happen? And was he wrong? I wasn't going to hurt him, not at all. But I wanted things to happen, I wanted the trust to be built, I wanted to touch his smooth tanned skin. But he wasn't a pretty girl who would be easy to persuade, although he was pretty, so pretty for a tough hood I couldn't stand it.

He couldn't be seen hanging out with me, I was sure that was a part of it. We were on opposing sides, we were enemies. I just wasn't buying into that whole thing anymore. Who decided it was that way? Our parents? Their parents? They were square, the whole lot of them. The rich country club parents like mine and the alcoholic dead beat parents like his, they were all out of touch.

"Okay," I said, letting it go. He shrugged and walked away from me, and I just watched him go. Watched the way he hunched up his shoulders, the way the collar of his jacket looked flipped up, the way his jeans seemed to almost slide off of him. Little details. The way he walked, the way he tossed his head to get his hair out of his eyes. All I could see were little details. What did he see? Expensive clothes? Shaggy curly hair? Shiny cars, trust funds, a future?

Maybe I wanted him because it was all forbidden. I got in my car and lit up a cigarette with the dashboard lighter. It was all forbidden. He was from the worst part of the city, the part where gang fights and gang killings were common, the part where kids dropped out of school like flies and no one batted an eye. The part where alcohol and unemployment ran rampant, the part where there was no stability and no accountability and you could smell the desperation in the air along with the heavy exhaust fumes.

Maybe I wanted him because he wasn't a safe girl from a family my parents had dinners with at their clubs, a girl whose father my father worked with, a girl with nice clothes and a nicer trust fund. He wasn't a girl at all. A girl from his side of town would be a hard sell to my parents but it could be done. She could get absorbed into our money and our way of life, and people could see that her impoverished upbringing wasn't her fault.

Nope. He was a boy, and that was the biggest taboo of all. Did I think, if I ever got past all the walls he built up around himself, if I ever gained any bit of trust and forged any kind of relationship with him, did I think that I could bring him home to my parents and have it be okay? I did not think that.

So maybe I was just slumming. I dragged on my cigarette and started the car, heard the low hum of the engine. Maybe I was just visiting this side of town, a tourist from the wealthy suburbs. I didn't know, I didn't care what I was doing, and I wanted to drive around and find him again and see if he would open up any little bit, let me in, or at least let me be alongside him.

I didn't do that. Maybe this was a game, a subtle little game that took time as well as patience. But I was running out of patience. I wanted to force him to the ground and kiss him, my weight trapping him, I wanted to hold his wrists and watch him struggle. That wouldn't build any trust. But it almost felt like the only way to get anything from him was to take it.

I went home and took a nap on my plush bed with the downy comforter. Sleeping outside in the chill on an old car bench with the upholstery coming out was less than comfortable. Could I live Johnny's life if I had to? He had abusive parents, or his father at least, he'd told me. Could I put up with physical abuse as well as mental abuse from my parents? Could I live so close to the violence that comprised the east side of town? I didn't know, but I doubted it. Being rich had made me soft.

The day went on, dragged on, the light leaving the sky in increments. I would drive to the east side again tonight, and every night, until I owned him completely.

When the sun left the sky I headed out, my car softly inviting as I folded myself into the seat, the dashboard glowing comfortably. Johnny. He was the only thing on my mind. I could feel all this pent up energy inside of me, tingling in my fingertips. Was being denied part of this…whatever it was? This desire, this longing and this wanting, was the denial just making me want him all the more?

The east side, and I was becoming familiar with the pool halls and the diners, the drive-in movie theaters, the vacant lot where I could find Johnny. I wanted him to be there now, alone, and it could be a little stage and we would be the only ones there, a play with two people. He wasn't. There were people there but he wasn't one of them. I could tell even from this distance by how they stood, the way they smoked. I'd memorized him.

So I drove slowly through the streets that were near that vacant lot, the place where me and my friends nearly killed him, the place where I decided that violence wasn't something I wanted to be involved in any more.

Through my open window I could hear fighting from one of the houses, and I parked my car right across the street. The house was run down, like all the houses, but this one seemed worse. No one even made an attempt to fix the sagging porch or throw away the junk that had accumulated on it, or mow the lawn, or what there was of it. It was long burnt weeds, dirt and rocks, litter. There were crumpled cigarette packs and bits of broken green glass in the front yard.

Was it too much to hope that this was Johnny's house? That this was his parents fighting, and maybe he was there getting beat? It seemed too much to hope, but I stayed to see if he would emerge with more blood and more bruises.


End file.
